The CEO's Contract Wife

Claire's POV

The smell of antiseptic in hospitals always reminds me of death.

I sat in a white room at New York-Presbyterian, watching my mother's pale face. She was sleeping deeply, her breathing so faint it seemed like it could stop at any moment. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting dappled shadows across her face—much like her current state of existence—flickering between light and dark, hanging by a thread.

When Dr. Martinez walked in, I knew in my gut it wouldn't be good news. His face, usually full of compassion, looked particularly grave today.

"Miss Stevens, we need to talk."

My fingers gripped the armrests tightly. This kind of opening line—I'd heard it too many times in TV shows, and it never meant anything good.

"How is my mother doing?" I tried to keep my voice steady, but the tremor was unmistakable.

Dr. Martinez sat across from me, hands folded on his knees. "I'm sorry, Miss Stevens. Your mother's ovarian cancer has metastasized to other organs. Standard treatments can no longer control the progression."

I felt the world suddenly go quiet, leaving only the sound of my mother's faint breathing echoing in my ears.

"However," he continued, "we do have an experimental treatment option. A new targeted drug combined with immunotherapy that has shown promising results in similar cases."

I immediately sat up straighter, a flicker of hope rising in my chest. "Then let's start right away!"

Dr. Martinez's expression grew even more somber. "This treatment isn't covered by insurance. The total cost would be approximately $500,000. And the window of opportunity is only three months—if we miss it, there won't be another chance."

$500,000.

The number exploded in my mind, leaving my ears ringing. I mechanically pulled out my phone and opened my banking app. The figure on the screen stung my eyes:

Account Balance: $3,247.82

I almost laughed out loud. Not from joy, but from the absurdity of it all. Me, an interior designer making $4,000 a month, expected to come up with half a million dollars in three months? This was harder than winning the lottery.

"I..." I opened my mouth but found myself speechless.

Dr. Martinez patted my shoulder gently. "I know this is difficult. Think it over and let me know your decision anytime."

After he left, I sat alone, my mind completely blank. Mom was still sleeping, utterly unaware that death was closing in step by step. I stroked her hand, once warm and strong, now reduced to skin and bone.

God, is this some kind of sick joke?

I left the room and walked to a corner at the end of the hospital corridor. There was a small waiting area here that hardly anyone used. I crouched in the corner and started making calls, one after another.

The first call was to my best friend, Sarah. We'd stayed in touch since being college roommates, and she would surely help me.

"Claire? What's wrong? You don't sound good." Sarah's voice was filled with concern.

"Sarah, I need to borrow money. A lot of money. My mom..." I struggled to keep my voice from breaking, "she needs surgery. $500,000."

The other end of the line went silent for a long time.

"Claire, I really want to help you, but..." Sarah's voice became cautious, "I'm still paying off my student loans. I can barely make rent. Maybe you could try crowdfunding online?"

I hung up and dialed the next number. Cousin Mark, Cousin Jenny, college friend Lisa... One by one, I made the calls, and each time I got similar answers. Some were sympathetic, others uncomfortable, but the result was the same—no one could provide that kind of money.

After the last call ended, I completely broke down.

"My mom is going to die!" I shouted into the empty corridor, my voice echoing off the white walls. I pounded my fist against the wall until my knuckles split and bled, the pain bringing me back to reality somewhat.

Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. I knew I needed to pull myself together, but right now, I just needed to cry.

The next day, I forced myself to attend the design presentation at the Meridian Hotel. This was a project I'd spent three months preparing for, what should have been a major breakthrough in my career. But now, I couldn't focus at all.

The Meridian Hotel lobby gleamed with opulence. Architects and designers in expensive suits gathered in small groups, discussing their work.

I wore my only formal outfit—a black suit bought on sale—feeling distinctly out of place among these people.

I spread my design drawings on the display table, trying to look professional. This was an interior design proposal for a residential complex, and I had poured countless hours into every detail. Color schemes, spatial layouts, material selections... these drawings represented all of my professional skills and creativity.

As I adjusted the angle of my drawings, someone passed behind me. I instinctively turned, and my elbow knocked against the nearby table.

Time seemed to slow down.

A cup of coffee traced a perfect parabola through the air, then landed with unerring accuracy all over a man's suit. The expensive coffee splashed across his immaculate navy blue suit, running from his chest down to his waist.

I stared in shock, my brain completely frozen.

The man slowly turned around. He was tall, at least six-foot-two, with meticulously combed black hair and features so sharply defined they could have been sculpted. But what struck me most were his eyes—deep blue, cold and unfathomable as the ocean depths.

"I'm so sorry! I'm really, really sorry!" I frantically pulled out tissues, but he stepped back, his gaze so cold I immediately withdrew my hand.

He looked down at his ruined suit, then raised his eyes to mine. "This suit costs more than your monthly salary."

His voice was deep, not raised in anger, but that detached tone was more unsettling than any shouting. People around us started to look our way, the whispers growing louder. I felt my cheeks burning, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me.

"I'll pay for it," I stammered, "just tell me how much it costs."

He raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused. "Are you sure you can afford it?"

That sentence was the final blow that shattered my last defenses.

All the fear, desperation, and helplessness that had built up over these days came pouring out at once. In front of this stranger, in front of everyone in the hotel lobby, I began to cry.

"My mother is dying!" I shouted, tears blurring my vision. "I need five hundred thousand dollars! I have nothing! I can't even afford to replace a suit!"

The entire lobby fell silent instantly. All conversations stopped, and everyone was staring at me. I knew I looked pathetic, but I no longer cared.

The man watched me quietly, something flickering in those deep blue eyes. Not sympathy, not disgust, but something complex I couldn't decipher.

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it to me.

I took it numbly, the gold-embossed letters gleaming under the lights:

Alexander Blackwood

CEO, Blackwood Group

When I looked up again, he had already turned and walked away. I watched his figure disappear through the revolving doors, my heart beating unusually fast.

Those deep blue eyes, and that gold-embossed card.

Perhaps this was my only chance.